


Many Happy Returns

by staringatstars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Ducks, Gen, Literary References & Allusions, Nightmares, St James's Park (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: After spending yet another frustratingly sleepless night in his flat, Crowley wanders to St. James in the early morning to discover he's not the only early bird struggling to run from his problems.
Relationships: Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 6
Kudos: 157





	Many Happy Returns

Crowley dreams of choking on smoke. 

He can feel his feathers burning, turning coal-black and coated with ash. He can taste the ash in his throat, on his tongue. This is not new, though it hardly gets easier. What’s new is the fireman’s hose blasting him through the bookshop’s window, the desperate wail of Aziraphale’s name bursting from his lungs with a violence that tears his insides into pieces. It’s the despair, the agony, that is somehow so familiar and simultaneously so much worse than anything he’s ever known. 

A cool autumn morning after a night filled with dreams such as this finds Crowley lying on his ceiling, glaring holes into his duvet. 

It’s been thousands of years, hasn’t it?

He should be used to the nightmares by now. 

The first time he’d slept through the night, with no thoughts or memories or pesky feelings to disturb him, had been addicting. No matter how many times the effort costs him, he knows he’ll never give up chasing the sheer bliss of dreamless sleep. Really, what’s a nightmare or two when your waking hours are (or used to be) spent working for Hell?

More of the same, really. 

Which was what made this particular night so irritating. The Fall is an old wound. One that will never entirely heal, but an old one all the same. The bookshop is in tip-top condition. Better than ever, really. Less dust. Less of that funky smell Aziraphale had conjured up to scare customers off from his glorified book collection.

And as for the angel…

Well, he’s in perfect health, isn’t he? Better than ever in his brand-new identical corporation. Hey, if you take a ship and replace all the parts, from the sail to the wheel to the mast, is it still the same ship? Plato had posed that question once or twice. Clever human. 

Always fascinated with identity, that one. 

If you burn the wings and the body, is the identity of the thing the same? 

Or is it something entirely new?

Oh, maybe the memories are there, something of the personality perhaps, but Crowley has always been of the opinion that this was a being fundamentally separate from its origin. 

_You were an angel once._

_That was a long time ago._

Crowley doesn’t know who he’s thinking about anymore. 

All he knows is that he can’t stay still. If he doesn’t start moving soon, he’s going to start screaming. 

He lands on the floor in a crouch, bent and hunched and small, then quickly draws himself up, rushing out of the room in a burst of manic energy that will carry him to wherever it is he wants to go. On the way out the door, he miracles a black dresscoat, tight-fitting pants with faux-pockets, and a turtleneck. He steps out of his building looking like he’s about to sport the Fall season’s trends at a photoshoot, and not like he’s about to have a meltdown, which is kind of the idea, so he settles for the classic style, digs a pair of shades from out of nightstand drawer, and then strides out to face the world like a man going to battle. 

Outside, it’s a London morning straight out of one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s works. 

Thick as soup, miserable, and chilly. 

Crowley isn’t as bothered by this as he normally would be. Sure, there’s a part of him that half-expects to spot glowing crimson eyes within the fog, to hear the bay of a hound hot on his trail, but hypervigilance is an old friend to him by now. He’s learned to separate genuine threats from paranoia, which means that he can exist in a simultaneously alert and relaxed state by casting out his senses. 

There are no demonic auras in the mist. No hostile intent. No bloodlust. 

Crowley is safe. 

And he will repeat that fascinating bit of trivia to himself as many times as it takes for him to believe it. 

He is _safe._ Aziraphale is _safe._

His aimless walking takes him to the duck pond in St. James, and he glances at their bench as if compelled. There’s no angel sitting on it now. It’s empty. Most of the benches are, actually, and with the ducks starting to migrate, not even feeding the fowl can serve for the kind of distraction Crowley was hoping for. 

He feels a buzzing under his skin, an itchy restlessness in his brain that’s screaming at him to start running, but to where? Why? Where should he go?

There is nowhere to run to. 

Desperate for something to take the edge off of the nameless, baseless dread swirling inside him, Crowley fishes out his cellphone, flips it open to stare at his first saved contact for roughly a minute, then tucks it behind his coat and rummages through the same pocket for a slim cigarette. He’s holding it between his thumb and index finger, debating the merits of indulging in the vice when he’s been trying to kick the habit, when his internal debate comes to a jarring halt thanks to an unwelcome interruption. 

“Those could kill you, you know.” The voice belongs to a boy who can’t be more than eleven, yet who speaks as though he wrote a dissertation on the subject for his PhD.

“Indeed, but so could a meteor or a train or a very determined duck.” Balancing the cigarette on the tip of his finger, Crowley says without turning, “These aren’t special.” 

The boy sounds smug when he replies, “Then maybe I should try one,” causing Crowley to glance down at the cocky little bugger out of pure curiosity. Upon seeing who it was exactly he was speaking to, the cigarette promptly burst into a small fountain of yellow sparks. 

Dark hair frames his jawline, with several strands falling over his hazel eyes. He sports the pasty complexion of a child who spends most of his days indoors, so to see him standing in St. James should probably be a relief, except Crowley knows that Warlock’s mother would have never let her son walk around the park alone.

Arching a skeptical brow at the boy, who was rather too preoccupied by the ‘magic trick’ he’d performed to notice, Crowley asks, “What are you doing here, anyway? It’s barely past dawn. Where are your guardians?” 

Proud and defiant, Warlock raises his chin, “Who cares? I came here by myself. Not like I need a babysitter to hold my hand or anything.” 

“You did _what?_ And they just _let_ you?”

“Sure,” Warlock replies instantly, though the way he scuffs his shoe on the wet sidewalk and awkwardly cups the nape of his neck suggests that he’s more nervous about this than he’s willing to let on to a stranger. Not that he should be letting anything on to a stranger he ostensibly just met. “I pulled the old ‘I’m going to the restroom but actually I’m slipping out the backdoor’ trick.” He looks pleased with himself, but also guarded, as though he’s half-expecting a lecture from the red-haired lanky man he’d run into at the park, and he’s very nearly right. But when Crowley hears a twig snap and glances over his shoulder, features already twisting into something not quite human, he spots the black sleeve and polished shoes of a Secret Service agent. They must have been willing to let the boy believe he’d managed to sneak away to give him a breather from being confined at the Dowling Manor all the time, which was unexpectedly kind. Fully-grown lions behaved similarly with their young, allowing the cubs to believe they got the upper hand in their play-fights in order to boost their confidence. 

It’s commendable.

Really.

The demon sincerely hopes the agent doesn’t lose his job over this, though it'll be a very different story if anything whatsoever happens to the boy during this outing. 

Concealed behind the mulberry tree, the young agent experiences the peculiar feeling of having narrowly escaped death while simultaneously suffering the sensation of someone tap-dancing on his grave. 

“How very wily of you,” Crowley says, his mouth curving up on one side in an amused smirk. Warlock appears stunned for a moment, and is silent long enough that Crowley begins to worry, but then gives himself a small shake and bends to pick up a pebble. It’s a smooth, flat stone the size of his thumb. He peers into the mist with a hand shielding his eyes, finds a target, then launches the stone across the placid surface, skipping it once or twice before it swiftly changes directions, veering off from the black swan the boy had been aiming for. 

Crowley makes a tutting sound, “Didn’t your nanny teach you better than to throw rocks at birds?”

“My nanny taught me that all living things should be crushed under my boot.”

Crowley coughs into his fist. “She did, did she?”

He’d hoped that Warlock had been too young to remember most of that world-conquering codswallop he’d filled his head with when he was a child, or at least come to think of it as some kind of metaphor for self-empowerment. In truth, though, even after Crowley learned that Warlock wasn’t the Antichrist, he’d always believed that the boy could rule the world someday. It’s just that now he’ll be doing it because he wants to, and not because some Great or Ineffable Plan says he should. 

At this point, he notices that there’s a book tucked under the boy’s arm. It’s a paperback with a carousel horse drawn on the cover with a style that gives the visage a hostile and foreboding bent. Actually, it bears a striking resemblance to the neighing, huffing monstrosity Crowley had nearly had to ride to Edinburgh.

“So why were you freaking out earlier?”

Plucked from thoughts of a particularly vindictive Clydesdale, Crowley takes a moment to consider the question, then frowns down at the boy, genuinely confused, “I wasn’t.” Warlock purses his lips as though he’d bitten down an orange skin. “Kid, is everything alright?”

“Sorry, weren’t we talking about _your_ problems?”

Crowley scoffs. “I doubt it.”

It’s too nice of a day to be bickering about which one of them is running away further and faster from their problems. The leaves above their heads are yellow-green and those fallen to the ground form a blanket of honey orange, rich reds, and caramel browns that rustle and crackle when they shift. There’s even a pleasantly crisp breeze that carries with it an earthy scent, mold and detritus and wet soil. 

Warlock reaches into his coat pocket, digging out a slice of bread. Crowley has to bite down on the urge to scold him again for shoving food into his pockets when he _knows_ that it attracts legions of ants to the laundry room, “Do you want some of my bread so you can feed the ducks?” 

There is exactly one duck in the pond. 

One. Singular. Duck.

What are the logistics of giving a gift to a demon, anyway? Even with Aziraphale, it was always, “Dear me, this giant book of astronomy is cluttering up my shop,” and then Crowley would generously offer to take it off his hands, and the angel would flutter his lashes gratefully and they’d call it a day. Aziraphale rarely gave him anything because he always recontextualized his gifts in the form of a favor Crowley could do for him, which suited Crowley just fine. 

After thinking it over, Crowley takes some of the bread crust, though he makes it a point to assert that he doesn’t owe Warlock anything for it, to which the boy scoffs in much the same way Crowley had demonstrated earlier. “Sure, dude. Do you want to feed the ducks or not?”

Bread in hand, Crowley makes his way over the bench. It’s a little damp, but he’s been getting tired of standing. Warlock and his hidden SS agent follow suit, with the boy plopping onto the bench besides Crowley, ripping off a piece of bread, rolling it into a ball between his fingers, and tossing it to the speckled fowl, which gobbles it up greedily before briefly being submerged in the water. 

The duck shakes itself off when it pops back up, quacking indignantly. 

Warlock snickers. Crowley quirks a grin at the sight. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a time after that, Warlock lost in his thoughts and Crowley determinedly not thinking anything. Unless thinking about not thinking counts as thinking, because in that case he was most definitely thinking about something. 

When they are each out of bread and the duck is as sufficiently stuffed as a bottomless pit can be, Warlock starts fidgeting with his book. “You might think this is silly, but I’ve decided that I want to be like Holden Caulfield when I grow up. He’s just so free, you know?” He kicks at the dried leaves at his feet. “He doesn’t need parents or friends. He’s happy.”

Incredulous, the demon asks, “Did you… actually read the book, kid?”

Now, Crowley is not a huge fan of books. This does not mean, however, that he has never read one in his long life, and when every now and then the humans ban a novel from their school curriculums, well, he wouldn’t be the Serpent of Eden if he wasn’t at least a little bit curious as to why, now would he? 

So when Warlock snaps back, “Did _you?_ ” it barely fazes him. 

“I may have skimmed it,” Crowley answers with a dismissive wave, “but that’s not the point. Holden may seem like he’s freer than the rest of us Beholden-to-the-Man folk, but actually he’s stuck. Too much of a child to be an adult. Too much of an adult to be a child.” He checks to make sure Warlock is still listening, then continues, “He lost someone important to him, you see.” For a moment, the scent of flames and smoke fills his nostrils. He breathes through it, exhaling through his teeth. “So important that he stopped being a child early, but never really grew up. So he walks around looking for that piece that’s missing, because maybe that’s where he’ll belong, ‘cept he’s such a right prickly bastard about it no one wants him around.” Warlock grips the book tightly, staring up at him with something fragile and fraying in his eyes. When Crowley speaks again, it comes out softer than before, “There’s no place left for him, really. No matter how many duck ponds he goes to he’s always going to be looking for that part of him that’s not anywhere, anymore.”

“What about the Catcher in the Rye that he wants to be someday? Doesn’t he save little kids from ending up stuck?” There’s something pleading in Warlock’s eyes, and Crowley almost lets the subject drop right then and there, but letting this kind of thinking persist can be dangerous if it goes unchecked.

“It’s a misunderstanding. Holden wants to be someone who can save kids from growing up too fast like he did,” Crowley draws out a pause, then finishes with deliberate casualness, “except the poem he heard wasn’t actually about that.”

Just as he’d hoped, Warlock takes the bait. “Well, what was it about, then?”

“Oh, I’m not sure I should tell you,” Crowley drawls, draping himself over the bench’s headrest with boneless ease. “What would your parents think?” Predictably, Warlock can’t let the matter lie after that, and begs the demon to tell him what the poem was about. Crowley pretends to think it over, before finally giving in with a heavy sigh. “Oh, fine. I suppose a hint wouldn’t hurt.” Warlock lets out a cheer, making Crowley turn his face so that the boy won’t catch him smiling. “Let’s just say Jenny’s not exactly saving herself for God and leave it at that.” 

When it becomes clear that Crowley isn't going to elaborate, Warlock groans, “That’s it? That’s the only hint you’re going to give me?”

“Yep. Someone who isn’t me will explain the rest to you when you’re older.”

Pouting, the boy crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. “You’re no fun.” 

True to form, Crowley lets out a scandalized gasp. He snaps his fingers and the speckled duck stiffens. It swims to the edge, climbs out of the pond, shakes out its flippers, and proceeds to tap dance enthusiastically on the sidewalk. When its routine is finished, it performs a sweeping bow, tucking a wing under its breast, then jumps back into the pond, where it bobs twice before letting out a startled squawk. 

Warlock claps so hard his bare hands start to sting. “How did you do that?!” There’s a flush in his cheeks and his eyes are bright with awe. 

“Proper magic.” Crowley winks. 

As he tugs off his gloves, he begins to hum the Robert Burns poem under his breath to the tune of _Auld Lang Syne_. However, since he wasn’t speaking the words, he may have been simply humming _Auld Lang Syne_ , though he’d rather go for a swim in the pond himself than admit to it. 

He passes the gloves to Warlock, who distractedly accepts them. He's gazing at the still, undisturbed pond with a thoughtful expression. “Where _do_ the ducks go in the winter?” 

“Hm. Down South,” Crowley says, propping his chin up on his fist as he considers this. “But not too Down South, I suspect. I would have seen them if they did.” Confusion furrows the boy’s brow at the odd answer, though he ultimately shrugs it off, likely chalking it up to Crowley being an adult and a weird one at that. With the bread gone and the duck and black swan having drifted to the opposite bank, Warlock dusts his trousers off and hops off the bench. 

Crowley cocks his head. “And where are you heading to?”

“Home. It’s nearly breakfast time.”

Standing up, the demon chuckles under his breath, “Some runaway you are.”

He reaches down into a bush, pulling out a small red-bellied snake. There probably isn’t any need to provide the boy with any extra protection now that Armageddon was done with, and he still has his stealthy agent to keep an eye on him for the journey home, which makes what he's about to do purely about Crowley’s own peace of mind. 

He focuses on the small serpent, crafting a connection between them, and in short order is contending with the dizzying sensation of existing in two places at once. It's a demonic miracle with an expiration period — Crowley isn't fond enough of double vision and bumping into furniture to let it continue indefinitely — but it will do to see the boy safely back to the manor.

“Take care of it, will you?” Warlock holds out his hand, his brown eyes impossibly wide and hopeful, and the little snake latches into him, curling around his wrist. “Your parents probably won’t let you keep him, but hold onto him until you get home. And be gentle, will you? You might say I’m a bit attached to the little guy.”

Warlock greets the reptile respectfully, “Hello, Brother Snake.” A forked tongue darts out as the snake scents the air, then with uncommon grace the garden snake acknowledges the boy’s greeting with a dignified nod. Delighted, Warlock turns to Crowley with a shy smile, “I’ve always liked snakes.” 

“Have you, now? Well,” and Crowley stretches it out, adding a few extra syllables, “I’m glad to hear it.” He clears his throat. “Now go on and get home, young Warlock, before your mother calls the police. Oh, and try not to worry her too much, won’t you?” Having already begun walking down the path to the park’s entrance, Warlock slows to listen as Crowley calls after him, “Otherwise, I imagine your nanny will have to check up on you, and I _know_ you don’t want that.”

The boy stops. “How do you know my name? Did you know my nanny?” 

Instead of replying, Crowley taps the side of his nose with a secretive smile. Warlock remains a moment longer, the gears in his head turning towards something improbable but perhaps not impossible, and then scurries off. Maybe someday he’ll forget about this, attributing his nanny’s quirks to metaphors and a stern religious upbringing, or maybe the magic will stay with him always, and he’ll grow up with the knowledge that he’d had quite the extraordinary nanny tucked safely away inside. An extraordinary nanny for an extraordinary boy. 

When the Secret Service agent steps out from behind his tree to follow the boy, Crowley greets him with a jaunty wave. Though he isn’t particularly a fan of how their constant supervision tends to suffocate the boy, this one had at least given Warlock some breathing space without putting him in danger and that was something Crowley could appreciate. The man would find himself having a string of devilishly good luck over the course of the next week. 

Once he's sure he's alone, Crowley casts one last minor miracle over himself to prevent any further interruptions, then steps to the edge of the pond, rolling his eyes when the duck he may or may not have tormented a bit squawks at the increased proximity. Slowly, he coaxes his wings into materializing, letting them unfurl to their full impressive span. The cool breeze catches at his feathers, tugging at his primaries and down, and he shivers with exhilaration. 

His feathers are black as Tahitian pearls, but they aren’t burning. They are sleek and shining, and in the reflection of the pool, tinged with algae green, another man-shaped being might have even been tempted to call them beautiful. 

Tossing his head back, Crowley lets out a barking laugh, incredulous and relieved. 

The world isn’t ending. Nothing is burning. The scent of sulfur fades.

He’s finally free.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're all having a very happy holiday season!


End file.
